Allopreening
by dreamsteampunk
Summary: Jason never died. Bruce is still an asshole. (AKA: the story of how Dick ended up housing five to six kids in his tiny-ass apartment, or, how to find happiness.)
1. assholes in training

Jason began his morning getting thrown out of a window. Not the most remarkable way he'd ever started his day, but probably up there in the top ten.

He clung to the windowsill and, with a grunt, heaved himself up. The window didn't actually have any glass in it, mostly because Jason had forgotten his keys last Wednesday and the apartment was high up enough that a little cardboard would do in its place.

He flopped ungracefully down, then scrambled to his feet. His roommate was at the table, drinking something he claimed was coffee. Jason personally thought it was a sin against humanity, but he'd rather not get pushed out the window again.

"Dick." He muttered, letting his brother wonder if that was a greeting or an insult. Dick decided on greeting.

"I got pancakes," he bargained, gesturing with his mug to the stack. Jason sighed and took a seat at the table. It was a rough hewn circular thing, and Jason was afraid to touch it too long for fear of splinters.

Dick had no such worries, and casually rested his elbows on the scarred up surface. Of course, he was still in his costume, and the gauntlets were especially thick.

"This is a terrible apology," Jason decided, putting down his fork.

"They're Alfred's pancakes, what more do you want?"

"A _verbal_ apology, asshole. And these were on the table already, they don't count."

"'Cause you're an expert in the fine art of apologizing?" Dick raised an eyebrow, and damn, he must have been taking lessons in casual condescension from Bruce.

Jason crossed his arms and scowled stubbornly. Two can play at this game.

"Fine. I'm sorry for pushing you out of the window, _even though you clearly startled me and had it coming_. "

It's not a full apology, but he'd take what he got.

* * *

Jason tried to put on his cheap boots, only to see his sock staring him down from the half-ripped off sole.

"Shit," he muttered, examining the offending shoe. Dirt and other unidentifiable but disgusting substances rubbed off onto his fingers.

"Dick!" He calls out. "My shoe broke!"

Dick bounced a roll of duct tape off his forehead. Jason shrugged and used it.

* * *

When Jason came back with a copy of Birdwatcher's Digest, Dick decided not to comment. He'd been up for going on fifty hours anyways, so he'd been too tired to question it.

When he'd seen his brother poring over it for the past week, he decided enough was enough.

"What the hell are you doing?" He asked, taking a seat on the threadbare couch next to him.

Jason mumbled something, engrossed in turning the pages.

"Enunciate," Dick reprimanded absentmindedly, leaning over onto his arm to catch a look.

"I said, I'm looking for a codename."

Dick took a second to process, and then burst out laughing.

* * *

"Blue-footed booby."

"Dick, fuck off."

"Ostrich."

"Dick."

"Songbird."

"Dick, what the fuck."

"What's wrong with Songbird?"

"It's stupid."

"Jason, most bird names are stupid. Emu though-"

"Dick, holy shit, I'm never telling you anything again."

"Crow? Magpie? Red-tailed Hawk?"

"Wait, what was the last one?"

"Red-tailed Hawk. Most common hunting bird in America."

"Not commenting on how you know that-"

"But you did."

"-that's not a half bad codename. Maybe, Red Hawk?"

"That's a lacrosse team, Jay."

"Oh, fuck you."

"Bluejay."

"No."

"It's _perfect!_ "

"Blackbird. I'm going with Blackbird."

* * *

Jason's costume was honestly just one of Nightwing's, but red. The paint had been runny, so it looked perpetually like he just bathed in the blood of a hundred paintballs. Prompting Nightwing to constantly call him "Carrie", amongst other bird-related nicknames, much to his consternation.

"Nightwing to Magpie, got something on Fifth and Main," Dick's voice whispered in his ear.

"Blackbird to Wingnight, be there in two," Jason shot back, calculating the distance and speed it would take.

He jumped off the edge, feeling the night air tug at his hair, and rolled as he hit the ground. Sometimes, even if it took off the "mysterious" edge, it was just easier to go on land.

"So, any specifics?" He whispered as he rushed, weaving in and out of alleys.

"Drug bust, I think. Meet me on the roof of Pier 42."

Jason took a turn hard, grapple already in hand, and spent a second searching for a way.

 _There_ , he thought, bringing up the gun. A quick shot sent the line spinning around an old-fashioned signpost. Taking a running start, he swung himself up and around, tumbling slightly ungracefully onto the roof. He clicked the retrieve button on his grapple, and got to his feet as the line snaked it's way back in, not unlike a tape measure.

He noticed immediately, a flash of blue.

"So, kid. Ready for a drug bust?" Dick asked, stepping out of a few shadows.

"You act like it's my first one." Jason groused, stashing his gun.

"First in Bludhaven. City's got a way of welcoming you."

* * *

 _A/N: watch this never become the series it probably should be_


	2. nickle and dime

_A/N: I know i wasn't going to write anything for this AU, but then an idea popped into my head and i had to sit down and write it out._

* * *

"I need you to go to the bank and ask for every penny they have."

Jason takes a deep breath, and attempts not to assume the worst.

"Are you asking me to rob a bank, because I'm not sure how good that is for our image."

"No! I _literally_ need every penny they have. Take, like, a twenty or something."

Grayson couples a quick _got to go_ with an insincere _sorry!_ and abruptly hangs up before Jason has the opportunity to question him further. Dick.

He has 3 options.

1) Ignore his brother. This will result in guilt tripping, and it being held over his head for a week, minimum.

2) Make the news. "Bludhaven vigilante carries buckets of coins up to sixth-story apartment! For no reason!"

3) Make the news. "Jason Todd-Wayne asks for a ridiculous amount of coins, terrorist plot suspected."

He groans and pulls a twenty out of his pocket.

* * *

It's four in the morning, and Jason is in full costume, attempting to explain to the bank teller that he really needs 2,000 pennies. He wishes he could pinpoint an exact moment in his life that led him to this.

It takes a solid half hour, two managers, and opening the coins-to-cash machine, but Blackbird finally has twenty dollar's worth of pennies. They actually don't weigh that much. The problem was mostly finding a space to put them. About a hundred coins in, he filled up his utility belt. A couple more handfuls went into his boots, and a solid fifty fit into the little glove compartments. He pulled the grapple gun out of it's holster and filled that to the brim with coins, before looking back at the bucket and sighing. He'd barely made a dent.

Finally, the manager that didn't already go home handed him her emptied out handbag.

"I wrote my address down on my business card, it's in the front pocket. This should hold the rest." She says, sounding barely a second away from losing her shit. Jason supposes it is funny to watch. Probably not as funny as dumping this all over his shit brother's head will be, but that's a pleasure for him alone.

Speaking of shit brother, he felt his phone buzz.

 _dick: Where are you?_

 _I need the pennies_

 _Are there any that were minted before 1857?_

Seriously. What the fuck.

* * *

Blackbird climbs through the window, bearing a pink-lavender-purple purse full of pennies, which he immediately dumps out on the rug.

The ensuing clang bring his brother out of the bedroom, where he was doing god knows what. He stares, unimpressed, as the vigilante begins to divest himself of coins.

"So," Jason begins, tugging off his boot and watching the flood of winking copper, "are you ever gonna tell me what the hell this was all about?"

Dick just raises his eyebrow. "You put them in your _boots_?"

"Seriously. What the fuck do you want with all these?"

His brother just grabs a handful and walks back into the bedroom. Jason hastily pulls off the rest of his armor, coins and all.

When he walks in, he could honestly say he really wasn't expecting that.

* * *

There's still a penny somewhere in his suit, jangling away mercilessly. It's really putting a cramp in his "stealth" gimmick, when everyone can hear him coming. Dick is not a help, at all. He just laughs.

He feels faintly ridiculous, a costumed vigilante loitering outside a balcony, with a handbag and a business card in either hand. It looks like he's there for a booty call.

It seems he spent too long trying to figure out whether to leave the bag on the doorstep or knock, and a little old lady with a broom decides for him.

"Get the fuck away from here you _hijo de puta_!" The old woman screamed, brandishing the blunt end far too close to his neck for his liking. He takes a second to process the Spanglish, then smiles a bit. Spanish was his first language, the one his mother taught him, growing up.

" _Porfavor pon la escoba en el piso, señorita_!" He pleaded, nudging away the broomstick. He held up the handbag, in an attempt to get her to stop. Please let him have gotten the right address.

 _"What the hell are you doing with my daughter's purse!"_ She screamed. Okay, right address.

 _"Um, returning it?"_ He said quickly, stepping back a bit. _"I swear I'm not a stalker!"_

 _"Then what the hell are you doing dressed like that? And at the window? Use the door like a normal person!"_

She has a point there.

 _"Okay, look, your daughter works at the bank I needed to go to because my brother needed pennies and she gave me my bag and I'm leaving now, okay? Good night."_ He almost escapes scot free, but then remembers what Dick asked him for before he left.

 _"Okay, I'm really sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know where I could get construction nails?"_

* * *

They're cleaning up after a big fight in Gotham, when Batman picks up one of Nightwing's Wing-Dings. Which was totally not Jason's choice of name, and he isn't going to ever call them that outside of his internal monologue.

"These are different. Cheap. What are they made out of?" He asks, bending it. It folds easily, having been made thin, with only cutting in mind.

"Zinc and copper." Nightwing responds cheerily, plucking a line out of the side of a building.

"Like pennies?" Batman asks.

"Yes," Jason sighs. "Like pennies."

* * *

 _A/N: yeah i was sitting and then i thought of that scene from the fanmade Nightwing show where he's making his own wing-dings and i was wondering where the metal came from and it kinda spitballed from there._


	3. textbook precision

_A/N: just watched civil war and it was so! badass!_

 _this has been lying around half finished in my drafts for a while so i finally worked up enough motivation to complete it!_

* * *

"I need your help to break into Wayne Manor."

Dick took a second, then sighed. "Tim, what the actual fuck?" He asked, moving to the side to let his brother into the apartment.

"No, I'm serious!"

"Look, I know you and Bruce are kind of on the outs right now-"

"You do?"

"Yes, Tim. I live in the next city over, not country. What I was saying was, you may be in a disagreement but you can't do anything rash or whatever."

"I'm not gonna egg the manor or anything!" Tim scowled, taking his seat on the couch. Jason poked his head out of the shared bedroom.

"Who's egging the manor?"

"Neither of you," Dick glared, somehow at both siblings at the same time.

"You're no fun," Jason whined, walking over to the couch and leaning on it. Tim looked up at him and smiled brightly.

"Hey, want to help me break into Wayne Manor?"

Jason raised an eyebrow and looked over at his other brother, who had stood, arms crossed, in front of the couch for the duration of the conversation.

He shook his head. Jason tried the puppy eyes.

"Fine!" Dick threw his hands up in exasperation. In a tone of resignation, he asked, "Why are we breaking in?"

Tim and Jason shared a quick victory fistbump. "You're lucky I'm cute, Replacement," Jason informed him in all seriousness.

"You're not."

"Whatever."

Both brothers returned their attention to the youngest when he cleared his throat. "Um, Bruce and I kind of… had a disagreement."

Dick scoffed a bit at that.

"And, I left in a bit of a hurry because, you know, sometimes you just can't be around him anymore because he just pisses you off so much, you know? And, uh, turns out I left all my textbooks there. And I have a test tomorrow. And those textbooks would be great because I kind of haven't studied at all? For the test? And I'm kind of freaking out right now?"

"Wow," Jason snorted. "You can tell he's a freshman. He knows when his tests are."

"Be nice," Dick warned. Turning back to Tim, his stance softened a bit. "How long has it been since you've eaten?"

"What? Uh… I'm not sure. I had breakfast?"

"Nice try. We have leftovers in the fridge. You like orange chicken, right?"

"Not to reject your hospitality or anything," Tim started, following his brother into the dingy kitchen, "but what does this have to do with getting my textbooks back?"

"Nothing, I just want you to eat something," Dick admitted, pulling out saran-wrapped styrofoam bowls out of the fridge. Jason followed them and hopped up on the kitchen countertop, motioning for Tim to join him.

"He's like the overly concerned PTA mom to Bruce's distant, emotionally clumsy dad."

Dick bounced a chicken nugget off Jason's forehead. He just shrugged, picked it off his lap, and ate it.

"Gross, Jay!" Tim whined, looking away.

"Hey Tim, what's your test on, anyways?" Asked Dick, handing his brothers plates of microwaved rice and chicken.

"Bio," he answered through a full mouth.

"Great! Jason'll quiz you, I'll get your books."

"Hey!" The middle brother protested. "Why don't you help him, and leave me to get his textbooks?"

"A, you're taking biology too, and B, I'm the only one here with a driver's licence."

With that, Dick grabbed his jacket off the back of the couch and left.

* * *

"Dick?"

He cursed. Of course it wasn't going to be that easy. Of course the Bat wasn't patrolling today. Of course Bruce just happened to come across him at that exact moment.

Luck was not something often on his side.

"Hey, Bruce," he rasped. He refused to turn to look at his ex-guardian's face, opting instead to continue to focus on searching the mess of papers on the coffee table.

"What… what are you doing?"

Shit. Bruce's footsteps were growing louder. Of course he wasn't just going to leave.

Dick felt his hand come heavily down on his shoulder and, without thinking, grabbed it and spun around, free hand coming up immediately to his surrogate father's throat.

They stood, frozen like that for a long minute, before Dick released his grip and stepped back. His left hand, the one that had been a misplaced twitch away from crushing his mentor's trachea, went combing through his hair. There was another tense silence.

"He was looking for this."

Both men turned to look at the welcome interruption, a powerfully built Asian girl holding a stack of textbooks in the crook of one arm. She proffered them to Dick, who accepted.

"You must be Cassandra. My," he snuck a glance at Bruce, "sister."

She nodded, then tilted her head to the side. Dick felt vaguely like he was under a microscope of some sort, or an x-ray. Like the girl in front of him could crack him open and spill all of his secrets out of his chest.

She held her hand out. "Cass."

After a bit of awkward reshuffling of the books, he took it. "Dick."

She nodded slowly, and then, as an afterthought, quickly smiled. Bruce cleared his throat, forcibly dragging all attention back on him.

"Are those Tim's books? What are you doing wi-"

Dick cut off, harsher than he intended. Bruce always brought that out in him.

"He's staying with us. I'll be going now."

"How did you even get in?" His father demanded, and yep, that was The Bat Voice, sure enough. "You're not welcome here."

Damn. That hurt.

"Got in through the roof," he replied flippantly. "You should really up your security there. Never know when some whackos in costume might invade your lovely home."

* * *

Dick can hear them arguing through the walls. He must only imagine what kind of torture their poor neighbors must be going through.

"I'm telling you, the tibia's the shinbone!"

"And I'm telling you, you're wrong!"

Dick sighed as he reshuffled the books to his left arm, struggling to get his key into the door's lock.

"Honey, I'm home!" He called out, setting the extra textbooks heavily on the couch Tim had originally sat on. Noting the blankets piled at the edge, he quickly made a reminder to check if they had enough breakfast foods for three next morning.

Walking into the conjoined kitchen, he was greeted with the site of his two younger brothers sprawled on the floor, surrounded by papers full of Jason's cramped handwriting and arguing about leg bones. He brandished his hard-won prize, rewarded when Tim's face lit up. The current Robin rushed to his feet and hugged the eldest around the middle with enough force to pitch Dick back a few steps.

Jason watched Tim excitedly page through his notes ('i told you, Jason, it is the shinbone!'), before looking over at his own older brother.

"Did you see tall, dark, and angsty there?" He whispered, slightly worried. Dick smiled reassuringly.

"Nah. Just called ahead and got Alfred to hand me these. Think he was on patrol."

* * *

 _A/N: I don't have (much) against Bruce's character, he's just an asshole who gives his sons daddy issues and if I didn't touch on that in here, I would be lying to much for this AU to handle._


	4. scout's honour: part 1

_hey look it's an arc! anyways this is jason and dick's first meeting._

* * *

Bruce Wayne was, by many accounts, an absolute cockbiting dickhead of epic proportions. (Bab's words, not his.)

Nobody knew this more than the very first Robin, who retired due to circumstances involving an one-eyed man and nanobots, and also weird obligations involving his (dead) family and some (equally dead) owls.

Dick's life was fucking weird, which was something Jason could comfortably and non-hypocritically say at that stage in his life. That was going to change really soon but for now, Jason could be judgmental.

But, regardless of circumstances, Dick had retired. Or, moved on at least. Nightwing in Blüdhaven, which, he could not say was particularly a step in the "up" direction. Because, you know, Gotham was crazy, but Blüdhaven was just straight up evil. And smelled bad.

Especially Dick's apartment building. It was stale cigarettes and a little iron-y scented, like old blood was spilled there. Which, yeah, Blüdhaven. Despite all that, Jason couldn't help but feel just a little excited. Even Batman hadn't been able to figure out where the golden boy was now.

(This probably had more to do with not wanting to see Dick in the least, but we'll let Jason have this one.)

There was only one lock in place on the door, which took Jason all of half a minute to pick. It almost made him wonder if he was even in the right place. If he was about to mistakenly walk in on a naked old man, he'd like a warning.

He swung the door open and narrowly missed hitting a kitchen knife with his nose.

He was in the right place.

"Jesus," he said, prying the offending projectile out of the door frame, "you do that to everybody?" Probably. There were many marks on that frame, all bearing a resemblance to the gouge left behind by utensil in his hand. See, he could be a detective too.

Dick, for the most part, just kind of watched. His irises were incongruously pale compared to his black hair and brown skin, a few too many shades apart to be overlooked. Instead, it was striking and gave the slight air of supernatural to him. Combined with his silence, it was unnerving and gave Jason the irrepressible urge to ramble to help fill the empty space. He probably learned that from Batman.

Dick was leaning against his kitchen counter, arms crossed and in surprisingly casual clothes. Jason wasn't sure what he had expected, but T-shirt and sweatpants was not it. It seemed too human for someone who existed solely in Bruce's stories.

Jason decided to take some initiative and walked into the small apartment. Then, for lack of things to do, he sat on the couch, viciously ignoring the spring that very suddenly began digging into his side. Also, he was still holding the knife. It seemed a bit silly, but he couldn't just drop it on the floor now, because that would be awkward.

Dick turned back to whatever he was working on at the counter. Dinner, probably.

"Close the door," he finally said, not even making eye contact.

Jason got up and closed the door. "So," he said, arms folded while clutching the knife ridiculously. "You're probably wondering how I found you. And maybe who I am."

"Not really. Give me the knife," Dick said.

"What?! No way! You threw this at my head! I need it to defend myself."

"It's meant for cutting fruit. What could you possibly do with it that you can't with the batarang in your back pocket?"

Oh shit, he noticed that.

"What are you gonna do with it?" Jason said instead.

"Well, _ideally_ , cut fruit," Dick responded, voice dripping with sarcasm. Yeah, he can see why Bruce fired him.

Grudgingly, he left the stupid fruit knife on the counter, a good seven steps away from Dick's position. Make the bastard work for it.

Jason retreated, walking all the way back over to the couch and flopping on it. You'd think a former billionaire's child would be able to afford better couches.

"Are you just gonna sit there, or are you gonna help me?" Dick finally asked after a few minutes filled with the scrape of spoons on cheap ceramic.

"Help with what?" Jason asked intelligently. Dick Grayson was not at all what he'd expected, and it was throwing him off his game.

"Dinner," Dick answered simply. "You're hungry, aren't you?"

"Not really," Jason said, ignoring Dick's responding scoff.

"Cereal's in the second cupboard to the left, if you change your mind."

"It's like, 8 in the evening. If I'm having anything," Jason asserted, "it won't be cereal."

"Time is an immaterial concept, and your stomach just growled."

Jason didn't have a response to that. He got out a bowl.

* * *

After a brief argument -it turned out Dick had neither a kitchen table, nor milk- they both sat on opposite counters on the kitchen, eating out of bowls.

Jason poked dubiously at his dry cereal. He hadn't had any food since breakfast that day, and he was starving, but this was also really not what he came here for.

Honestly, he wasn't sure what he came here for.

"If you're not going to start talking, I will. I've been told I'm good at that," Dick finally said. Jason absently noted the lack of accent in his speech, clean and unprocessed. Nothing in his generically pronounced syllables tied him to any place.

"You're probably here because of Bruce. Besides Babs, he's the only thing we have in common, and let's face it- he's an enormous asshole. You're here because he fucked up somehow."

Jason picked at his cereal, laboriously chewing and then swallowing.

"You live alone," he said finally.

Well, no fucking shit, genius.

"And, like," Jason struggled to articulate, "you work alone?"

Dick slowly nodded, for the first time in the interaction unsure of where it was going.

"So I was wondering if you would mind me helping you 'cause Bruce is shutting me out and you live in Blüdhaven there's no way you don't have seven hundred cases open and you know what, fuck Bruce anyways!"

"What? No!" Dick said, confused. He also realized at that exact moment how many homicide reports were splayed out on the counter behind Jason. Something Jason had noticed three dialogue tags ago. "Don't touch those!"

Jason flipped open a police report anyways. "Ooh, look. Murder."

* * *

 _send me prompts at my tumblr, dreampunk_


	5. scout's honour: part 2

_A/N: school has started so i am currently a little ball of stress_

* * *

Nightwing, Batman's first lieutenant and resident vigilante of Bludhaven, works a 9 to 5 job. As a cop. And drinks coffee and has donuts. As a cop. Jason couldn't believe that this man could legally be called his brother.

This doesn't actually have any bearing on anything transpiring currently. Jason just really wanted people to know that.

At the moment, he was alone. Despite the general disruption he had brought with him, Nightwing had a schedule, and he was sticking with it. Which was... actually kind of a funny thought to have. 1 AM: Interrogate criminals. 2 AM: Punch someone. 3 AM: Go to sleep.

Yeah, okay, he could have thought of something funnier with that. Fight him. He was tired, and distracted, and really really afraid of touching anything because he wasn't sure how booby trapped the apartment was. So instead of doing anything remotely interesting, here he was. Sitting completely still on a couch.

It was probably the most still Jason had been in three years. Naturally, his mind started to wander a bit, spinning itself around in circles out of boredom. But each time, it wound it's way back to the same thing.

"You're not worthy of that symbol."

His internal reflections were rudely interrupted by his legal brother crashing in through the window. Huh. 3 AM. Right on time.

* * *

Currently, said legal brother was sleeping on (what Jason had dubbed) the Hell Couch. Through either lots of practice or a stunning amount of damaged sensory neurons, Dick was fast asleep. Jason had seated himself on his brother's bony, spine-y back, a marginal improvement over the couch.

It was probably 6 AM, but time had no meaning in the dark, liminal void that was Dick's apartment. Everything was lit by the harsh blue light of the laptop teetering dangerously on the edge of the coffee table. Police reports, manila folders, assorted notes, and pens took up the rest of the space.

It looked vaguely like something out of A Beautiful Mind, is what Jason would have thought if he'd ever watched A Beautiful Mind.

Right now he was just digging through the papers, cursing as furiously as was allowed when you were in close proximity to a sleeping person. /Something hadn't matched up, which would have been helpful information if Jason had any clue what that something even was.

He gave up, letting the notebook paper and printed out CCTV footage flutter to the table dissatisfactorily.

(That's not a word, but when Jason's annoyed he uses lots of syllables, regardless of validity.)

It was a serial killer. They knew that much, but none of the victims had anything in common, not age, class, height, or even shirt colour. The randomness was almost deliberate.

However, they were all tattooed with the same set of symbols before being stabbed to death. The symbols didn't even mean anything, according to Zatanna, the magician Dick had asked to translate. They varied from alchemic to Aramaic, and meant something involving stars of mercury and hellbeast rot. Whatever that meant. Frickin' new age weirdos.

Jason carefully picked up his pen and looked back at the timeline. The killer had claimed one victim a day, for the past four days. It all happened at different times, one even in broad daylight. Two instances had even occurred within a few hours of each other, separated only by the arbitrary line in the sand that was 12 AM-

Wait. If there was one thing Jason knew, it was that serial killers stalked their prey. Sure, it was possible to get from East End to the docks in two and a half hours. But you wouldn't have enough time left to abduct and tattoo a guy, stab him, and then- Oh shit.

Jason poked his brother in the side, hard. Dick jerked awake, dislodging him and the paper nest he'd built.

"Dickthere'smorethanonekillerohmygod," Jason said.

Dick took a second to process. "Wha- like Scream?"

"Sure." Jason had never seen Scream either. "I'm thinking doomsday cult."

Dick sat up. "Walk me through it."

"Okay okay, so that guy," Jason pointed to a suspect labelled Malcolm McDonwald, "is the lead suspect right? He killed Colm Wilkinson. Enough CCTV and witnesses to place him at the scene of the crime, but only in East End. Not at the docks. And it takes, if you're speeding, two and a half hours on average to cross that distance. But the murders were three hours and seventeen minutes apart, and forty-seven minutes isn't enough time to tattoo someone this intricately, let alone stab them, what?" Jason peeked at the official coroner's report. "Fifty-five times?"

"So, who killed Lennox Rosse?" Dick asked, sounding like a kid's murder mystery picture book. (Actually, he is wrong and no kid's picture book sounds like that. Jason is just under-socialized.)

"That woman with the glasses. Uh, Macy Duff. She was at the docks that night, and has friends in common with McDonwald."

"It's the cult of five," Dick said, leaning over the table and making cryptic notes. There was an eye involved, which Jason really hoped was just pictoral shorthand.

"What?"

"Oh, I had a psychic link with a demon for a few years. She knew these kinds of things."

"What?"

That was a fucking conversational curveball, and this was a conversation about doomsday cults.

"Yeah okay, so let's stalk McDonwald. God, that sounds weird. Did you bring your costume? If not, I'm ditching you."

Jason took a really deep breath. This man woke up three minutes ago.

"We're going out now?" He asked. Dick just gestured at the time. 5:40.

"It's called the cult of five, Jason. And it's the fifth night."

* * *

 _A/N: easter egg time: the oc's names are theatre shoutouts, mostly macbeth related, because i am that kind of person. no hidden forshadowing or meaning. i'm just lazy and faux-intellectual._

 _(Macy Duff - Macduff, Malcolm Mcdonwald - Malcom (King Duncan's son) and Macdonwald, Colm Wilkinson - the first actor to play Jean Valjean, and Lennox Rosse - a couple of Thanes who had normal sounding names)_

 _btw: dick is referring to his psychic link w/ raven from the teen titans show. i fucking love that show._


	6. scout's honour: part 3

_A/N:i lost the original first chapter and school has been kicking my ass so instead i rewrote and split the chapter. I'll try as hard as I can to get the final chapter in by next weekend._

 _Also, tomorrow's my birthday!_

* * *

Bludhaven was not the kind of city Gotham was. Gotham was hazes of cigarette smoke and yellow lights shining out of stone architecture. Gotham was a city built to last. Bludhaven was not.

The buildings were squat and littered the terrain as far as the eye could see. Made with cement, and painted in all manner of sickly pastel, the homes gave the appearance of crumpled up balls of paper, scattered on the floor. The walls were caked with mud, and the air held the scent of sea and shit.

Overall, the city looked like it could be wiped out at any moment.

Dick had lived in many cities in his life. But he'd never really belonged to any of them. He'd never understood the concept of a home, the concept of having 'a city', until his parents died and gave him roots.

Unlike Jason. Jason was from Gotham, born and bred, and it showed. You could hear it in his accent, see it in his mannerisms. He belonged to the city, for better or for worse.

So what was he doing in Bludhaven? What did he hope to get from here?

His musings were interrupted when he noticed McDonwald get up. Was he going to call someone- yep, he's calling someone.

"Jason," Dick whispered, nudging the younger boy. "Get your hoodie on. I need you to pretend to be a boy scout."

* * *

That wasn't a metaphor or anything. They needed to plant a bug inside the guys house, and, well. Jason had brought his civvies. (He claimed it was too cold. It was April, and Dick called bullshit.)

"I want you to know, deep down, from the bottom of my heart, I hate you," Jason said. "Completely and utterly."

"You met me a few hours ago."

"Time is made up and I hate you."

Oh, clever. Using his own words against him. Clearly, he took lessons from Bruce.

"Yeah, yeah, go be a good little spy and make conspiracy theorists paranoid and everything."

"You are the worst brother ever. He's a serial killer."

"Yep!" Dick said brightly. "Out you go!"

Jason jumped off the roof, yelling out an indistinct 'hate you!'. If he zipped up his hoodie, he just looked like a civilian with weird taste in leggings. The hem hit low enough, at mid-thigh, to hide the distinctive markings of the Robin costume.

Dick crept to the edge of the roof, directly across the listed address for Malcolm McDonwald. Repressing the urge to rip his mask off, he brought his binoculars up to his eyes and focused on watching Jason. The masks's lenses made everything an irritating grayscale, washing out all the colour, but Jason was clear enough.

He knocked on the door sharply, three times. Dick took the time to be slightly affronted, seeing as Jason had just broken into his place without any regard towards formalities like that.

There was a tense half minute that dragged on longer than thirty seconds had a right to. Just as Jason was about to turn around, the door swung open to reveal a casually dressed middle-aged man.

"Hi sir," Jason said, "I'm a Boy Scout!" His back was to Dick, so he couldn't be sure, but Jason sounded like he was smiling as hard as he could.

"A... Boy Scout?" McDonwald repeated, confused.

"Yeah! Would you like to buy some cookies?"

"That's Girl Scouts," Dick said through the comms.

"We have _excellent_ cookies," Jason reiterated aggressively. Dick sniggered from his spot on the rooftop.

McDonwald had asked Jason to come inside, which Dick thought was super creepy and way too obvious. He shifted uncomfortably, changing sitting positions on his rooftop. Jason was still visible through silhouettes in the curtains, and confirmation came through the uncomfortable metal earpiece jammed in his ear.

"So, Alfredo," McDonwald's voice came through as faint background noise. "How old are you?"

"Say fifteen," Dick said, because fifty-five would be on the nose and a bit hard to believe.

"I _am_ fifteen."

Oh. Hah.

McDonwald said something indistinct in the background.

"What was that?"

" _Yeah_ , fifteen _is_ a nice age," Jason responded, stilted.

"Don't talk weird. He'll notice," Dick said around a mouthful of granola bar he found in his pocket. Jason's middle finger had a truly lovely sillhoutte.

McDonwald said something else, more indistinct than before. Dick began sorely wishing for a rewind button on the comms. "Move closer to him," he said.

"I would love to go to the docks with you, Mr….."

"Jason, stop. Don't go with him, anywhere."

"Though, it's pretty early. I _sure_ hope nobody follows us."

"Jason, you are _being a brat_."

"Alright! Let's go!"

" _Jason I swear to god-_ "

* * *

 _A/N:_ _Jason's fake name, Alfredo, is because a guy named Alfredo kept looking over my shoulder to see what I was doing and i wanted to freak him out :)_


	7. scout's honour: part 4 - final

_A/N: School is kicking my ass. Don't expect much for a few months, it was a struggle to get this in by Saturday._

* * *

It was officially 5:57 in the morning. Cultists, apparently, did not have quite a keen sense of time or punctuality.

Dick felt like he could have made a pun out of that if he tried a little harder. He was tired, sue him.

Jason was doing fairly well, down there. McDonwald seemed extremely desperate, and very willing to overlook the sketchy things about this situation. Namely, all of it. What was it Bruce said? Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot?

Dick snorted to himself around a mouthful of pocket granola. Bruce was a goddamn asshole, and anyways, one could also argue that _he_ was superstitious as fuck. He dressed up as a bat and punched people in the face. There wasn't even the excuse of precedent, like there was with him and Jason, he just up and decided on bats and punching.

Weirdo.

Anyways, 5:57 AM. It wasn't deserted, and one could feel the civilization at 5 AM, but it was quiet. Nobody had shaken off the shroud of sleep enough to make noise, so silence reigned. Nobody payed attention to the old white dude walking off with a small latino kid. Nobody looked up and saw the figure running after them, greyed out in the morning sun.

Jason was doing surprisingly well. He _was_ Robin, after all. Well, not really. He's _Bruce's_ Robin, but he's not _Robin_ Robin.

Dick didn't really know how to feel about that. Fuck Bruce, 'cause he _knew_ , knew where the name came from, but, well. Jason didn't. At least, he hoped Jason didn't.

Still, it wasn't a coincidence that Dick refused to call the kid Robin. It's not Jason's name. It's not his title. It's not his history.

It's Dick's.

* * *

McDonwald takes Jason through the formulaic gridlocked streets of Bludhaven, going faster and faster the quicker the clock ticks down.

Maybe he's aiming for 6, now that the ritual was postponed due to a pesky little thing called natural progression of time.

Dick jumps from building to building, refraining from using his lines. The area was suburban, or as suburban as Bludhaven got, and so the houses were squashed together in a definitely non fire code compliant manner.

Jason and McDonwald didn't appear to be talking, and nothing was coming through his comms. McDonwald kept glancing about, checking his phone in his pocket constantly. Dick couldn't tell if he was checking the time, or if he got messages.

"Why's he checking his phone?" he asked Jason.

"Why're you checking your phone?" Jason repeated robotically.

Dick groaned, and thanked the gods that McDonwald wasn't particularly concerned with how strangely 'Alfredo' acted.

Finally, they arrived at a park. Bludhaven parks weren't much different from parks across the nation. They smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, had benches full of couples making out, and were full of patchy, more yellow than green, grass.

This particular park was more or less empty. There were about eight others loitering in the area, probably graveyard shift workers from the local hospitals and 24/7 fast food places.

Except, they were all separated into pairs. And they were all converging to the centre of the park. And that was Macy Duff.

Oh, Jesus shit. They were doing this ritual in a _public park_? He would never see parks the same way ever again.

Dick had to admit, however, it was a smart choice. There weren't any nearby buildings, and it was isolated in the middle, streets all around. If someone were to approach, they would be spotted immediately.

"Malcolm!" Macy called, striding over. Now that she escaped the shadows cast by the trees, Dick could see that her pair wasn't another cultist, but another child.

"I thought you were bringing your nephew!" She asked, jerking her own child into view. She was yelling loud enough for it to reach Dick, both naturally and echoed through the comms.

Oh shit. They weren't just sacrificing one kid today.

* * *

"This one's actually fifteen," MacDonwald smiled, manhandling Jason in front of him. "Figured it'd be better."

"Mm," Duff smiled, leaning over the girl she was with. "My girl's fifteen, and today is her five month anniversary."

Dick got the feeling that Duff was a bit competitive.

"Can we get _started_?" A tall Puerto Rican man said. Rodrigo Desdemona, Dick recognised him from the files. Pity. He thought the guy was innocent, back when everyone was thinking 'serial killer'. He had _smile lines,_ for christ's sake. Everybody trusts smile lines.

Apparently, so did the kid he was with. Small, dark-skinned, and her features looked middle eastern. Nobody in his family was adopted, so Dick assumed he just grabbed her off the street.

That seemed a bit imprecise.

The other two adults showed up, Emilia Cassi and Bianca Montano, with their young sacrifices in tow. He couldn't quite tell from this distance whether the kids were related or not, as all four were white, and all white people looked alike to him.

"We will begin," Duff said, so quietly that Jason's bug barely picked it up, "when we are _FUCKING READY_."

Dick wasn't going to have hearing in that ear for a bit.

Visibly collecting herself, Duff turned to the east. The streaky yellows that heralded sunrise had risen above the treeline, rendering it in silhouette. The sun itself was neatly situated atop the skyline, crowning the buildings of Gotham.

"Formation," She said, thankfully at a normal volume this time. Immediately, each cultist took their separate child and faced outwards in a circle, with Duff at the head. "Knives out," She said, and they obeyed.

"Oh thank god," Jason quipped. "You weren't just happy to see me."

They were going to have a talk about dark one-liners when this was over.

McDonwald jerked the little brat again, and Jason's bug caught the other kids mutters and whispers and sobs. Dick had a moment of sympathy- it was hard to concentrate on the job when civilians were breaking down around you. It stressed you out.

Carefully, he dropped from his rooftop to the alley behind it. Now, the shop hid the park from view, and he only had the faint audio of Jason's bug to guide him. Carefully, he crept around the side of the building, back to the wall. They were all facing outwards, maybe to prevent something like what he was about to do from happening. However, they also each had a child in their arms, all of them breaking down in some way or another.

"Jason, be distracting for me."

Jason started screaming. Not words or anything. Just one really long high note.

Kid could probably sing that Whitney Houston song if he wanted.

Dick took the opportunity to-

(He threw a stick.)

(It's an eskrima, and you know it.)

(Yeah, but you know what eskrima means? _Stick_ fighting. I googled that specifically for this argument.)

Dick took the opportunity to throw his eskrima at Cassi, smashing her in the head. Jason grabbed McDonwald's arm and then smashed his elbow right in his face, breaking what may have been his nose.

By that point, Dick had caught up to the park, running onto the soft, dew-covered grass. Jason's jacket had been shredded (but not subsequently mourned), and was hanging on by his left shoulder, exposing the R symbol.

The grass was slippery and wet, and Dick didn't quite feel like falling straight on his face, so he opted to just punch Montano in th-

Jason just screamed.

Not like before. Real. Jason just screamed.

Dick whipped around, and Jason had a knife in his shoulder. A kid was under him, wild-eyed and frozen, hugging the ground.

Jason took a knife for another kid.

Dick hit the button on his wrist, the one that sent his current location to every number associated with the BHPD. Then he threw the second stick.

Desdemona fell in a terrible heap, but Dick didn't really notice or care. He had already looked back to-

Duff was holding her knife to a child's neck. Her teeth were bared, like a snarling dog. It was the little middle eastern girl, unconscious. The others had run away during the commotion but- there was blood at her temple. She hit her head? She was hit?

Duff was trembling, and a red line was carving it's way into the girl's neck. She didn't try to stop it.

Dick couldn't get the-

There was a batarang buried in Duff's hand. It wasn't there before. Duff let go of the knife, clutching her hand to her chest.

Dick ran and grabbed the girl. He registered Jason in the corner of his vision, running to Duff. He was focused on the little girl's neck.

He couldn't hear anything anymore. None of the screams or struggles. He couldn't see. Everything was dark. But he could feel.

She felt like a person who was dying. She felt like someone he killed. She felt-

She wasn't dead yet.

* * *

"She has a pulse! She's got a pulse!" Dick yelled, trying to be heard over… something. Wasn't there screaming? He remembered screaming. It was faint, a thumping in her wrist beating out at- 50 beats per minute. She looked… fifteen probably. She should have a BPM of- he knew this. He should know this.

There. He heard it. Sirens, that's what he was shouting over.

They got here fast this time. That's good. Where's Jason?

There. Out by the ambulance. He found himself a mask? He has bandage- right, he got stabbed. No, not stabbed. There was Desdemona's knife, and it was-

Dick walked over and sat down beside the kid. He was staring down at his hands.

* * *

"My hands are bloody."

"Yeah, Jay. Generally, that happens in a fight."

"Do you know Lady Macbeth?" Jason asked suddenly.

"What? Yes," Dick said, unsure of where this was going.

"She, she didn't kill the king. Not really. But she was _involved_ , she's _why_ he's dead. And then, and then the guilt drives her crazy. And she keeps trying to clean her hands. Keeps trying to get the blood off them."

"This is _the_ nerdiest way to admit you're fucked up. I just ran away, but you gotta bring _Shakespeare_ into this?"

"Shut up! This is serious!"

"Yeah, okay. Listen. Why don't you, you know, tell me what you did. So, I can be a little less clueless about what's going on?"

"I… There was this guy. He was nasty, and scummy, and… He was a bad person. I didn't like him. And we were alone, and then he fell. And I guess, I guess I could have saved him but… I was too late. And maybe, inside, maybe I didn't _want_ to save him? But I was the only one who could have, and now his blood is on my hands."

"Jay, I killed people."

" _What?_ "

"Yeah. I… it's part of the reason why Bruce threw me out. Or, I ran away. Well, both. I left, because, well, because Bruce can't get over shit. He feels bad about shit, and he tries to make everyone else feel like shit then, because he feels bad."

Jason scoffed a little, dropping his hands. "He told me you were the perfect Robin. It's why… it's why I came here, I guess. I wanted to see how the golden boy performed. Wanted to… I don't know, close the gap?"

"There isn't any," Dick grinned, reaching over and ruffling the kid's hair.

Jason was a good kid. Dick got the feeling that his parents wouldn't mind.

"You're Robin."

* * *

 _A/N: Wanna talk, exchange headcanons, or send me prompt? I'm always down for social interaction at my tumblr, dreampunk._


	8. talk is cheap

_a/n: i should be studying for finals but instead, batman fanfiction. catch me i'm failing._

* * *

Tim knew they were doomed the minute he heard the canned laugh track through the thin walls.

Grimacing, he knocked on the door to apartment 601. There was a brief thud and shuffle, before he heard Jason's voice clearly yell, "Is that Tim? Don't let him in!"

"I can hear you!" Tim yelled through the door, pressing his hand on it. It suddenly swung open, unbalancing him. He flailed for a solid two seconds before looking up at the face of his adopted sister.

"Uh, hey… Cass?"

"Hm." She grunted, turning to the side to let him pass through. Jason was seated on the ratty couch, facing the TV which displayed some pixelated 90's sitcom or the other. There were shirts of multiple kinds and an odd suit jacket scattered around the room and on the floor, and dirty dishes piled up in the sink. One of the boys, probably Dick, had stuck a Febreeze in the socket, in a futile attempt to mitigate the 'lived in' aroma.

Jason was wearing sweatpants and a shirt that was loose, even on him. By contrast, Cass was immaculately groomed, in a black jacket and dress. Tim felt like he completed the odd picture, stiff in his starched uniform.

"So," he sat on the part of the couch not taken up by Jason's feet, "how did you two meet?"

Cass perched on the arm of the sofa. "I met Richard first," she said, calm and enunciated.

"They met when he went to get your textbooks a few months ago. Now she just shows up sometimes. We're trying to help her learn English."

"With cheesy reality shows?" Tim asked. The canned laugh track shrilled again and he winced.

Cassandra shrugged.

"Funny."

Tim sighed and grabbed his textbooks from the desk they were precariously stacked on. "Where's the English one?" He asked, staring at the spines.

"Under the left dinner table leg," Jason called over his shoulder, "so put it back when you're done!"

The price he paid for having brothers with their own apartment.

* * *

Watching Jason cook was like watching an episode of Game of Thrones. There was lots of fire, and things died more often than not.

"Jason, how the hell did you burn milk?"

"I'm trying my best, Tim, get off my back!"

"Please don't tell me that's supposed to be your best?" Tim smirked, watching from the dinner table with his books and papers scattered out in front of him.

"Oh, you want to make this? You think you can cook this?"

"Jason, you're not cooking, you're _making coffee_."

"And I'm doing pretty well, thank you very much!" He yelled, dramatically sieving the coffee grounds from the kettle.

"How do you even call yourself a bat?"

They both stopped their fight/witty banter the second they heard Cass giggle.

"I think his coffee's ace, and I'd be amped to have it!"

Tim's mouth hung open.

"I blame you," He pointed to Jason.

"What! Barf me out!"

"STOP."

Cass giggled again. "Yeah Tim, don't be a Herb!"

"I hate both of you so so much."

"Man, that's so bogue!"

And that's how Jason got an English textbook thrown at him.

* * *

(3 days later, Gotham City)

Cass turned around first, which was the only warning Tim got. He found himself immediately in a headlock, courtesy of his _wonderful_ older brothers.

"Heya, cool cats," Dick smiled at Cass, while dragging Tim further back by his neck.

"How do you want to break up a gang war in Bludhaven?" Jason finished, fiddling with his communicator.

Cass grinned brightly. "Well that sounds… cool-a-roonie."

Tim groaned. "You are all going to die sad and alone."

"How can we, replacement, when we got you to love us!"

"Yeah," Cass said, keeping an admirable straight face. "Don't be yagalistic."

Dick shook his head. "It's okay guys. Tim's a closet disco queen."

"That was seventies slang and you know it."

"All's fair in love and war, replacement!"

"I hate each and every one of you, and let it be known that I want to throw you all off Wayne Tower."

* * *

 _a/n: there is probs going to be more dick and jason relationship to come, since that relationship is WHY i wrote this lmao i'm getting side tracked. also, while there is still going to be lots of one-shots, i'm thinking of adding a chaptered arc with like, a plot, into this. idk the format works better on AO3_


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